


You're Such a Violent High

by goldveines, howdydarlin, like_a_gem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (i'm not gonna lie this is a big excuse for both of them to be as extra as they can be), Alternate Universe, Artist AU, Depictions of past Abuse, M/M, Model!Andrew, Slow Burn-ish, Softer Andrew, artist!neil, self-harm mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-08 16:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldveines/pseuds/goldveines, https://archiveofourown.org/users/howdydarlin/pseuds/howdydarlin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_a_gem/pseuds/like_a_gem
Summary: Andrew is going through life relatively untouched—doing so happily until one day, while enjoying the anonymity that the Foxhole coffee house offers, he feels eyes on him. Neil is a walking cliche that Andrew should stay away from but is determined to stay close to. When Neil asks him to help him with an art project, Andrew finds himself saying okay. The catch is the prompt for the project: to expose the subject. Andrew is determined to figure Neil out before Neil figures Andrew out, but will either man like what they find?In participation with "AFTG Big Bang 2017."





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew discovers watching eyes. Subsequently, Andrew makes, possibly, a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll save the big notes for the last chapter, but a few things before you start reading:
> 
> First, it's finally here! That thing I've been vaguely mentioning—the excuse for my horrible updating schedule on other fics. Second, a whopping reminder that my partner in this fic, Jewel, is the MVP for dealing with my awful emails and whims. (I'm certain most of my emails contained the words 'woops' and 'I'll be gone for a few weeks' because I am, as a person, inconsistent.) And last, a reminder that neither Jewel nor I are perfect, and this fic is bound to have mistakes. Forgive us now, before you start reading, so that you can enjoy reading." - Simon
> 
> Anyway, enjoy our piece!  
> <3 Jewel & Simon

**i.**

Sweat crawls down his back and sticks to his shirt. The summer sun is beating down on him, and the campus offers little shade. The occasional tree is already sheltering groups of students in refuge from the heat. Andrew would prefer not to be shoulder to shoulder with someone else suffering just as badly as he is.

The Carolinas' summer is the brief period of time where Andrew forgoes his usual long-sleeve attire. Right now wears a tank-top with sharks adorning the upper half and khaki shorts. Despite his cool clothing, the pavement feels like it's melting the sole of his shoes, and his shoulders are being particularly scorched. He guesses that it won't be a week before they're radiating heat from a sunburn.

The air conditioning of the Foxhole is a sweet reprieve. The Foxhole is one of Palmetto State University's brand of coffee houses/cafés. They're filled with the Universities paraphernalia and propaganda—whichever your mind is inclined to, pride or cynicism—and students frantically turning in papers on the free wi-fi connection. Andrew is occasionally one of these people, though usually sans the frantic, but mostly one who takes advantage of the anonymity and relative bubble that the Foxhole offers. The customers of the Foxhole have more important things to do than bother Andrew, who keeps to himself in the front window's corner.

Andrew is pleased upon entering to find that, though the heat had corralled more populous than normal, his usual seat is empty. He's not dumb enough to believe it will stay that way while he orders, so he goes to it first and puts his backpack on the table. The absence of his textbooks on his back, too, is a relief. He rubs his left shoulder, which had gotten the brunt of the weight for some reason, as he walks to the line. It's relatively long because most people, even broke college students, don't like to loiter without services rendered.

Andrew scrolls through texts on his phone while waiting his turn. There's a few from Nicky, complaining that the heat constitutes a trip to the city. Andrew deletes them without responding. There's also one from Aaron, reminding Andrew that Katelyn will be coming over on Saturday – a careful way of telling Andrew to be scarce. Andrew texts back a succinct, “Fuck you,” that also serves as an, “I will.”

He's just about to swipe away Nicky's various snapchat notifications—more complaints—when the person in front of him is gone and it's his turn. Andrew slides his phone into the front pocket of his pants and steps up. Renee isn't working today, so Marissa is at the counter. She's not the worst of the Foxhole's workers, but far from bearable. Andrew doesn't hold it against any of them particularly hard because most annoying traits can be attributed to a friendly job-like demeanor.

He orders a strawberry danish, his favorite, and a hot chocolate. Marissa mutters, “Out of your mind,” as she enters the order. He can change his clothes for the heat, but not his tastes. Andrew hands over the crumpled $5.27 from his pocket. He often forgoes his wallet in favor of his pockets. 

He moves on down the queue of people waiting for their order, most of them with “iced” at the front of their title. It's another wait where he scrolls through his phone, now getting the chance to swipe away Nicky's snapchats. He taps through the over 200 seconds of blurry and zoomed in pictures with capital captions. He breaks from his phone again, slipping it back into his pocket, when his name is called over the counter.

His backpack had done it's job and kept the table clear of inhabitants. With coffee and danish in hand, Andrew pushes his backpack from the table to the chair opposite of where he sits.

He sits in the chair whose back is to the window so that he has easy access to the rest of the room. He feels the sun's heat on his back again, but it's watered down through the tinted windows. It's almost pleasant - except that every time he reaches for his drink his armbands move a little and scratch at his skin. They're almost unbearable when subject to the heat.

After he finishes his danish he situates himself so that he doesn't keep pulling at the bands. He grabs a book from his bag, required reading for his creative writing class, and sits like this: his left leg is pulled to his chest with the same arm wrapped around the knee; that arm holds his hot chocolate within close proximity of his mouth; his right hand holds the book open against the table with bent knuckles.

He's almost finished chapter four when he gets the feeling of eyes on him. It takes him a few sweeps of the room before he finds the source of the feeling.

A few tables up and to the right of Andrew sits a guy with a gaze that slides between writing and Andrew. Andrew's stare isn't noticed for the first few glances of the other man, but when they are, he sits up straight. It's every version of the deer-in-headlights look represented in one person.

Andrew is smarter than to create a scene in public. He stands to put his book back in his bag and gathers his trash. There's a trash can on the way out the door, so he slings his bag over his shoulder and makes for the door with trash in hand. The stranger watches him as if now he's not supposed to stop. Andrew ignores it at first, and tosses the trash away, but then decides not to. He turns backwards into the door, opening it behind him and offering his middle-finger to the stranger.

**ii.**

Renee's dorm isn't one Andrew frequents if he has the choice, namely because it usually involves the other two roommates. Andrew is, however, avoiding his own dorm. He had gone to the roof for a while, feet dangling over the edge of the building and heart hammering, but it had lost its effect just as the cement had lost the sun's heat. It's happenstance and convenience that leads him to Renee's dorm.

Just as Andrew had toyed between leaving the roof and sitting there uncomfortable, his phone buzzed in his front pocket. Renee texted him, “Drinks in my room with the girls if you want.” He had been bored, and at least a drunk Allison, one of Renee's roommates, is a little closer to Andrew's brand of bearable.

So Andrew sits on Renee's bed, back against the wall and glass of coke and rum in his hand. Renee is drinking a regular coke on the bed next to his, on Allison's bed. She's recently dyed her hair, the rainbow bits on the end, because they stand out starkly against the white walls behind her.

Allison and Dan are busy making concoctions in the middle of the room, both sitting cross-legged and cackling the way that crows do.

Dan is donned in her "best party clothes," as she had put it earlier. She wears sweatpants that read “juicy” on the butt and a tank-top that's bedazzled in a way that appeals twelve year-olds. They're clothes that she has, probably, had since she _was_ twelve.

Allison, sitting on Dan's left, is the opposite. Andrew can't think of one time that she's been less than immaculate. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail that is more than effortless—he knows, because unfortunately he had been seventeen and decided that long hair was a good idea—and her makeup isn't even smudged. Her outfit is, of course what's in the magazines. It's the perfect casual style, he supposes. She has on white shorts and a tank-top covered in flowers.

Allison's not quite reached the tolerable portion of the evening, only noticeable by her both outright distaste for Andrew and camaraderie. She somehow is able to manage a point between hating Andrew and finding him to be her new best friend. She's fierce when she's sober, but honest when she's drunk. Allison and Andrew aren't as similar as he and Renee are, but they harbor similar principles.

Andrew nurses the drinks that are handed to him for a few hours by unstable hands and participates in a few comments to conversations until his phone vibrates with a text from Aaron.

**Aaron; 11:43pm  
she's gone.**

Aaron's infatuation since freshman year had been Katelyn, one that Andrew openly disapproved of. It's a recent split of differences that has a stalemate occurring between the two of them; so long as Andrew doesn't have to see Katelyn, the two brothers can live in relative peace.

Andrew doesn't offer a goodbye to the girls before downing the rest of his drink and exiting the room.

**iii.**

Another scorching day after class has Andrew seeking refuge in the Foxhole's walls. This time he orders an iced hot chocolate, an option that Marissa suggests to him in light of the heat.

It's not quite as busy as it had been the last time, so there isn't as much danger of his seat being taken. He finds it easily and pulls his book out in front of him. He sits criss-cross in his chair and leans an elbow on the table so he can rest his head in his hand. He puts the drink before him on the table so that his mouth rests on the straw while reading. But before too long he's again filled with the feeling of being watched.

It doesn't take him as many sweeps of the room to find the source this time, a direct result of less people. Unsurprisingly, the same stranger is huddled over a paper and switching glances between it and Andrew. His response, too, is faster than it had been the last time.

Andrew decides on a course of action that he can take in public, one that doesn't involve making a scene. He once again gathers his things together because of the stranger's stares, but this time he doesn't exit. He instead moves to sit at the stranger's table.

Up close, Andrew can appreciate the stranger more fully. The stranger has auburn hair, an unruly mess on his head, and blue eyes that stare in surprise at Andrew—eyes that are level with Andrew's because the stranger is in line with Andrew's own stature. But most noticeable is the edge of scarring that peaks out from the edge of his shirt, at any point – his neck and either arm.

Andrew looks down to the paper that the man had been crowded over. It's a drawing—of Andrew. He considers for a moment crumpling it, and then he considers the unfinished nature of it. Andrew looks at the drawing a moment longer and then adjusts himself to mirror it. When he's satisfied he meets the eyes of the other man and says, “Finish it,” with the detached nature that he often has.

The man stares at him for a moment, mouth open as if to reply, but then decides it better not to and resumes his hunched over posture. Andrew can see the self-consciousness settle onto his shoulders, and his forearms inch slowly to cover his work. Each time that he looks up at Andrew it settles further into him, a result of meeting Andrew's stare every time.

As the man works at being unnerved, Andrew works at assessing. He wears a closely fitted teal shirt and what Andrew thinks are jean shorts—he only saw them when he walked over, and he’d rather they weren’t. Aside from the shorts, the man paints an attractive picture of himself. 

It only takes ten minutes for the drawing to be finished, and the stranger sits up straight when it is. Andrew holds his hand out for the paper to be put in; the stranger does so hesitantly.

“What,” Andrew asks as his eyes scan the paper, “is it for?” The drawing is remarkably well done – or at least, it is to Andrew, who isn't very good at art at all. There's silence after his question and Andrew's gaze breaks from the paper and to the man across from him. He's staring, again, with surprise on his features. Andrew clarifies for him since he seems to be too struck to understand, much less answer, “You're either an art student or someone who wants to be one. Your parents forcing you to be a doctor or something?”

“Art student,” is the two-word reply that he gives. His voice, despite the insecurity written on his face, is clear.

“Do all art students have a pension for minor league stalking?” Andrew sets the paper down and pushes it back to the man. 

Realization hits him, as well as words, “No, I was just—I wasn’t stalking, I’m just trying to get inspiration for a project, and whenever I’ve seen you, it’s just kind of struck.” His sentence peters off with abash. 

“It ‘just kind of struck’?” Andrew recites with mockery; again, his own brand of it. It likely reads more as distaste, even contempt. 

Despite the tone of Andrew’s voice, the other man loses some of his hesitancy and expands, “You fit the rubric nearly perfectly,” he pauses, to gain more confidence, and then, “and now that you’re right here, I’m thinking of asking you to be the subject of it sans the stalking.” 

Andrew responds effortlessly, “Yeah, and what’s in it for me?” He doesn’t say it how most people say the sentence, with a sneer on their mouths and confidence in their voice. He says it like he knows that there is nothing. 

“I’m an art student; I can’t really pay you. But I was thinking I could buy you dinner.”

“I said what’s in it for me, not for you.” It’s very clearly not the answer that he expected, because he’s back to the open-mouthed expression he wore when Andrew first sat down. 

A little dejectedly the man says, “Then I guess I don’t know. What do you want?”

Andrew thinks about what a stranger has to give to him. His thoughts lead him to questioning the scars that peek from beneath his shirt here and there, but Andrew isn’t quite ready to ask about them yet. He finds himself saying, “I’ll let you know.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“You’d like me to say it again? I can promise you that if I answer again, my answer will change.” 

“No, no. You don’t have to say it again,” he looks overjoyed, “But I should tell you, before you really decide to do this, the nature of my project: to expose the subject. The obvious thing to do is, of course, nudity, but I’m thinking that it’s going to take a little more to add you up.”

Andrew feels like a fool. He does not like being a fool. The other man has been playing the confused and struck artist, allowing Andrew to be clever. The reality is that the man has been clever since Andrew sat down. He wears the confident grin that Andrew should have worn when he said, “What’s in it for me?”

He lets the sneer build on his face and a little of the anger show in his voice when he says, “I’m not a math problem.” 

“But I’ll solve you.”

“Fuck you.” It sounds ugly and Andrew likes it. 

“The name’s Neil,” the man—Neil—says with a smile. Andrew laughs, short and staccato bursts because damn if he doesn’t have balls. Most of the people Andrew knows piss their pants when Andrew’s angry. Neil had smiled, not even the conniving one he had offered earlier. 

He offers his own name, “Andrew,” and wonders who will be figuring out who.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil disappoints. Andrew talks with Wymack.

**i.**

1) Questions have to be specific, and if Andrew chooses, he can expand; 2) Andrew cannot refuse a question, but he can choose not to expand; 3) Andrew gets to ask a question for every question he answers. These are the rules that Andrew and Neil argue upon over the phone. 

Before leaving the other day they exchanged phone numbers with Neil’s promise to be in contact soon. ‘Soon’ turned out to be the next day. Neil had called Andrew and asked for ground rules, as a precautionary matter, seeing as the subject matter is, no doubt, “sensitive”. They had argued for twenty minutes before deciding on those three. 

The first is decided because Andrew doesn’t want to have to expand on particular instances should they arise - and also because things are so much more interesting if someone can figure them out. The second is because Neil had already decided Andrew was too difficult to allow questions to be refused. The third is because Andrew is curious on all accounts.

By the end of the phone call Andrew is split in his wants - to tear Neil apart, or to tear into him. Because he’s skilled at ignoring pipe dreams, he’s set on the former. 

Andrew sits on his desk after hanging up, forehead leaning against the trim around the window and hand on the sill. He has a cigarette between his fingers and smoke clouding his head. He stares at the closed phone in front of him and stubs out his cigarette. Angry hands grab for the pack and light another. 

**ii.**

“Boring,” Andrew’s voice drawls out, monotone and unhurried. He flicks his eyes up to Neil on the couch across from him. Neil is wearing black shorts and a PSU hoodie, the hoodie because he’s apparently too sensitive for the air conditioning in the commons. He’s looking entirely at ease, and Andrew is feeling agitated.

The other man had talked a big game at the Foxhole and over the phone, but now they sit in stagnant space. Neil’s questions fall flat and Andrew’s own follow a similar path due to his disappointment. The last question Neil had asked was what Andrew’s favorite color is. 

“That’s not,” Neil says lazily, “an answer.” Neil takes a moment to finish whatever he’s sketching before meeting Andrew’s eyes. 

Andrew returns it with an equally lazy, “That’s not a question.”

He watches as Neil’s face recognizes the tension beneath Andrew’s skin. There’s a slight tilt to his head, a furrow to his eyebrows, a squint in his eyes. He’s a walking billboard, advertising his every thought and feeling.

Neil pulls himself from the couch and sits upright. He puts his sketchbook on the cushion beside him, then leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees. It makes the few feet between their opposing couches shrink.

“Not interesting enough for you?” And again the game is on, because Neil isn’t talking about the last question, but rather this _thing_ as a whole. 

“You presented a challenge,” Andrew says simply, “but this is not that. ‘Not interesting enough’ doesn’t begin to cover it.” 

Neil lets out a huff of laughter, “Thought I’d ease you into it.” Andrew’s deadpan stare is enough of a reply, and Neil says, “Noted.”

Andrew stands then, and Neil’s gaze follows upward. “It’s easy to fake the game before you start it, not so much once you’re in it. Call me when you’ve figured it out.” Andrew gives Neil a two fingered salute before turning away. 

**iii.**

Andrew’s not put off enough to warrant sparring with Renee, but still enough for his hands to itch for something to do. 

He walks back to his dorm, hastily smoking a cigarette. It’s half-past five and the sun is still in it’s prime, making it almost miserable to smoke - a helping hand in his agitation. He feels like he’s on fire. A hand that searches for something to do winds up in his hair for a moment, but miserable in another as a result of his hair being warmed by the sun. He sincerely wishes the summer comes to an awful end. 

It’s really not that long of a walk to his dorm, but it feels like an eternity by the time he reaches it. Andrew stubs his cigarette out before walking in because it’s too much of a hassle to fight with the front desk about it on the way in. He feels the eyes on him anyway when he walks to the elevator, watching him to ensure that he doesn’t smoke. 

Andrew can hear the video game sounds before he even opens the door. Nicky and Aaron sit in beanbags around the television and Kevin offers tactile support from the couch behind them. 

Nicky doesn’t share any of the Minyard looks. Nicky’s tall and dark where Andrew and Aaron are short and light. He’s happy - wasn’t always, but is annoyingly so now. His face is always showing too much. Big brown eyes and a fair nose highlight his every emotion. It annoys Andrew.

If Nicky looked related to any of them, Kevin would be the closest - though still not a great contender. Kevin’s eyes are a deep green and his hair is nearly black. He’s fair skinned. His jaw is brutal and his nose is straight. On top of it all, he’s over six feet. His looks haven’t passed Andrew’s notice however, he’s too much of a coward for him to consider; too scared of his step-brother. 

Aaron is his twin, but Andrew only sees the differences when he looks at Aaron. His hair is a darker blond. It’s never cut quite the same way (the bangs are always shorter). There’s a mole by his collar that Andrew doesn’t share. He’s taller - nothing substantial, but Andrew notices - yet smaller. He’s angry; it’s in his eyes. 

Aaron pauses the game at Andrew’s entrance, and Nicky calls out a, “Yo,” and then to Aaron, “Hit play, he’s in a mood.” Neil’s work is, apparently, evident. 

“Good afternoon to you too, Nicky,” Andrew says with thin smile. 

Andrew’s habits are well known, and when he’s past the living room and down the hallway Kevin calls out, “Where’s Renee?” Andrew ignores it in favor of shutting the bedroom door behind him. Poor Kevin. Even when Kevin’s trying to adapt to Andrew he’s a step behind. 

Andrew’s only in the room long enough to stuff clothes into a duffel, a t-shirt and some shorts. When he passes the others on his way out, Nicky says, “Send my best to Renee.” Kevin is not the only one who is usually a step behind Andrew; most people are.

Andrew goes to the student gym to take out some of his frustrations. He swipes his ID through the card reader at the door. It beeps to let him in, and Andrew heads to the locker room to change out.

He runs for a bit at first, to warm up, but soon moves to the weights. There’s half a dozen others using the weights, but most of the people in the gym are running. It’s a harder to habit to pick up for college students, lifting weights. Running is easier, he supposes. Personally, Andrew doesn’t care for it. It’s a good way to warm up and warm down, but falls flat in most other aspects. Running and him have an understanding: he’ll do it because he needs to, but not because he wants to. 

He focuses on arm exercises because his fingers still twitch do do something. His head looks for the opportunity to shove the thoughts from his head. Andrew grips the barbell until his fingers go numb and he’s not sure his arms will cooperate to do another lift. His arms are dead weight as he wipes down the equipment. 

The gym showers have curtains separating each shower head. They’re the only reason that Andrew takes a shower at the gym instead of going home and taking one. He’s not inclined to showing off what’s beneath his arm bands, and it’s too big a hassle to dry them out.

Andrew turns the shower as cold as he can stand it, both because he’s hot from the work out, and because he does, in fact, have a pink hue to his skin already. He needs to get sunscreen the next time he goes out.

Putting his arm bands on directly after a shower sucks, and he has to wipe his arms down three times before he puts them on. Still, it’s uncomfortable, he slides them up inch by inch. After, he wraps his towel around his waist and pulls the curtain away. Andrew gets dressed with slightly less trouble than he had putting on his armbands, a direct result of his shirt and shorts being looser. 

When he’s finished, he slings his duffel over his shoulder and exits the locker room. He’s on a straight path for the door when he’s stopped by someone calling his name. Andrew turns to the sound and finds, unsurprisingly, David Wymack poking his head out from the employees only door. 

Wymack is a middle-aged man who works for the university, a trainer. He’s covered in tattoos and filled with coffee. Andrew met him his freshman year and found the older man to be...understanding. Well, that’s a lacking word, but the one that fits the best. Wymack doesn’t ask questions and Andrew doesn’t have to answer them. So, for two years now, Wymack has helped Andrew work out, and mildly sort his thoughts out if he feels so inclined. (His thoughts shared with Wymack more often tend to be Andrew sifting for information, but the other man allows it most times.)

“Andrew,” Wymack crooks a finger at him, “come here.” Andrew sighs, and comes to his beckoning. Wymack steps aside in the doorway to let Andrew in, then shuts the door behind them. Behind the employees only door is, most directly, a staff kitchen. The next room over is small and used for stamping in and an egress door. They stay in the kitchen.

Andrew moves to lean against the wall of cabinets while Wymack sits at the small table. The other man doesn’t look angry so much as curious. Andrew doesn’t like a curious Wymack. 

“Something the matter?” Andrew says, the picture of innocence. He makes himself comfortable, putting his hands in his pockets and putting one foot back against the cabinets. 

“Until today, I’ve only had people ask me about you if they wanted to pick a fight - did you know that? - and even then, I can count the number of times it’s happened on one hand.” 

Andrew gives him a disinterested look, because so far he hasn’t caught Andrew’s attention, “I assume you have a point?”

“My point,” Wymack enunciates, “is that some kid came looking for you today, and he didn’t exactly seem the girl scout type.” Andrew’s first thought is irrational and shoved aside, his second is about an auburn haired boy who isn’t exactly the girl scout type. Andrew imagines a litany of reasons that Wymack viewed Neil as suspect, most of them because Wymack has the innate ability to see people through. 

“Wouldn’t happen to be pint-sized, would he?” 

“Matter of fact. You staying out of trouble, or looking for it?”

Andrew pushes off the cabinets with the foot resting there and comes to lean on the table in front of Wymack. He looks to the ceiling in mock contemplation and then to Wymack. 

“Debateable,” and then, because Andrew is beginning to think, “Anything specific, or just looking for me?” Andrew is beginning to think that Neil is very good at the long game. Andrew is beginning to think that Neil is not as figured out in Andrew’s head as he thought he was. 

“He wanted to know about you, your friends and such. He didn’t get very far because I told him he wouldn’t find what he was looking for here. Andrew,” Wymack waits until he’s sure that Andrew really is paying attention, “just promise me you aren’t going to do something reckless?”

“Oh,” Andrew laughs, pushing back from the table, “it’s probably too late for that.”


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil ups his game. Andrew agrees to a favor for Allison.

**i.**

Andrew’s still deciding what to do with Neil. Since his conversation with Wymack, his head has been working at the problem, only to stop itself short because it’s still unclear what exactly the problem _is_. 

He knows very little about Neil, and he thinks that this was his first mistake. Too many people are dismissed in his eyes because very few measure up, or at the very least, take too long getting there. Neil is...presenting a challenge. Andrew likes a challenge, but he usually likes to be informed when he’s being presented with one.

Neil is is disguised behind interesting scars and innocent gestures, blue eyes and deft hands, auburn curls and cunning. Andrew is still sifting through the details, and for once it’s not fast enough for the amount that’s being thrown at him. Neil is a walking deception, and Andrew isn’t sure whether this makes him dangerous or a threat - a distinction he’s still having trouble justifying. 

His phone vibrates on the windowsill in front of him. It only vibrates once, a text, so Andrew ignores it a moment to finish out his cigarette. A few drags and empty thoughts before he stubs it out. 

**Neil; 10:23 am  
how about the quad this time?**

It takes him nearly a full minute of internal debate before he decides fully between addressing him and dismissing him.

**Andrew; 10:24 am  
figured out the game, or found new moves?**

**Neil; 10:26 am  
** cheated.  
quad, y/n? 

Not for the first time, Andrew laughs at the other man's balls. He openly admits to cheating, going to Wymack for more information. It's as much a death wish as it is a relief; Andrew's head had concocted ideas he'd prefer not to pan out. 

**Andrew; 10:29 am  
** a bold move from the snake.  
yes. 

**ii.**

The sun is brutal on his bare shoulders as he searches the crowd for Neil. His only savior is his own preservation - a not frequent partner - because he had considered forgoing his usual summer exception to long sleeves. The conversation he’s about to have with Neil feels like one he should be wearing sleeves for, but he’d decided he’d play the game. 

A few stares with strangers later lands Andrew’s eyes on Neil. He’s slumped beneath a tree, using the roots as resting points. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. His sketchbook at his side, saving a spot for Andrew, is the only sign Neil is waiting for someone. He doesn’t share the searching looks everyone else does; he’s used to being found. 

Andrew walks to Neil with the grace of a cat, silent in the sound of students surrounding. He chooses to come in front of Neil rather than at his side. He bends at the knee and rests his arms there to scrutinize Neil into opening his eyes. 

The blue comes slowly, Neil is no rush. His pupils change with the brightness of the world and adjust to something less pinprick sized. Andrew swipes a look at Neil from head to toe with a sneer held on the corner of his lips. 

He’s wearing shorts that are the same annoying color as PSU’s - bright orange that make his eyes hurt in this kind of sun. He squints at them. His tank top is black, and unforgiving to Andrew. Neil’s willing to play the game, it seems, just as Andrew is. His tank top has wide arms so that Andrew can see the very beginnings of his ribs - and very much see his arms. 

First, of course, he sees the scars. The ones he has been so curious about are on wide display. An interesting play for a man desperate. He considers the “how” behind them momentarily before deciding it’s a waste of time; there are too many cruel things and too many different wounds for him to speculate. 

The second thing he sees is what makes Neil’s attire unforgiving, what makes him want to bare his teeth like a god damn dog. A t-shirt doesn’t hide muscle, but a tank top certainly highlights it. Andrew can see inches upon inches of flesh, and he’s angry because he _likes_ it. 

“Snake,” Andrew says finally, by way of greeting, rather than over think this rapid change in mindset. 

“Andrew,” Neil smiles, threadbare, “an interesting name. I have no doubt you’ve got a story for it, so it’s my first question. Tell me why you call me snake now.” 

Andrew doesn’t say anything for a moment longer than Neil accepts as a waiting period, so Neil pulls his sketchbook to his lap and pats the ground where it used to be. Andrew ignores it, and settles into a sitting position, legs crossed, where he is in front of Neil. He folds his hands together in a fashion that he can push his thumbs against each other. He looks at the scant area of Neil’s ribs that the tank top offers, a fleeting look not caught because Neil stares at Andrew’s neck. He thinks maybe his pulse is visible. 

“I do not,” Andrew says simply, “care for people that deceive me, nor do I care for people that touch my things.”

“Clarify your ‘things?’” Neil’s brows are furrowed together. Andrew can’t tell if it’s amusement or confusion. He shouldn’t assume anymore. 

“Wymack. Others possibly, but I haven’t the want or the need to check up on you.” The last part is what Neil takes it as, a dismissal. He says, _You are not the nuisance you think you are._

“I’m only playing the game, Andrew.” Neil pulls a pencil from the binding of his sketchbook, then opens it to some spot in the middle. He starts drawing. Andrew tells himself not to be curious, and then he isn’t. 

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” Andrew’s voice is monotone. He switches gears, “Tell me why you’ve decided to show off.”

It had only dawned on him after Neil said he was only playing the game. Andrew had done too much underestimating, and not enough calculations. He’s beginning to understand that everything Neil does has a reason, and it’s his turn to ask the question. 

Neil smiles like he’s got a dirty hand up his figurative sleeve, one that’s going to win him something big. “I told you on the phone: I cheated.” 

Andrew makes a ‘tsk’ sound with a slight bob of his head, a signal that what Neil gave is not an acceptable answer - even if Neil doesn’t have to give more according to their rules. It works, nonetheless, and Neil elaborates. 

“Your friends gave me nothing - which gave me everything. Cracked the game wide open. I’ve got the trump card now.” Neil waits dramatically while working on something in his sketchbook. His eyes dart up to Andrew’s, see the impatience in them, and he continues, “I already knew you liked interesting. Now I know you like honest. Hence the shirt.

“I’d have to be blind to not notice you were curious about the scars. Can’t show them all and still be decent, but this is a start.”

Andrew’s mind catches every word of what Neil says and he analyzes it slowly. He’s got time anyway, so that Neil can draw. 

The first is that Neil’s question had been redundant, considering he claims to know the trump card. It had been an excuse. It seems that Neil is big on the dramatics of the game. The big unveiling. The second is unnerving, but something Andrew already knew. Neil confirmed that Andrew was not happenstance in the coffee shop, but intentional. The third? Neil said “this is a start.” Andrew’s head catches on this, no matter that he tells it not to. There will be more.

He addresses the least deprecating matter, “Why cheat if you’re only going to use it to waste a question? Sounds like a waste of time.” His voice has an edge to it, but Andrew isn’t entirely sure it’s aggression. He tells himself to shut up. 

Neil shrugs his shoulders, “Confirmation is useful,” and then, “I want to know, what are you thinking right now? - It’d also be useful.” Neil puts the pad of paper down by his side so he can focus on Andrew.

“That your question?”

“I think you know it is.” 

“I’m thinking,” Andrew drawls out slowly, thinking maybe this isn’t the worst thing he’s about to do, “I keep underestimating you - fool me twice and all that.” He waves his hands freely in the gesture. “I’m thinking that I might do some cheating of my own. I’m also thinking you have made that quite easy, should I choose to. But most importantly, I’m thinking that even in your honesty you are a snake.” 

Neil’s only response is a simple, “Like calls to like. Your question.” It frustrates Andrew. Again. He chooses then, to attack head on. 

“Your scars.” The two words are loaded, and Andrew knows it. Despite Neil’s attempts to be honest, he’s considering lying. Hiding. Running. Andrew watches it on his face, all too easy to read. Andrew laughs an empty laugh because he’s glad it hit. 

“My father, one way or another.” He leans his head back against the tree, shuts his eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. He opens them. “Come here - I won’t bite this time.” Neil motions next to him as he had earlier. Andrew stares at the ground there like it might be a trap.

It might be a trap.

Andrew moves to Neil’s side.

He mimics Neil’s stature, knees curled to his chest and arms slanted wherever feels the least uncomfortable sweating. 

Neil holds his right arm out toward Andrew, looking at Andrew’s knees with eyebrows raised. Andrew nods and Neil rests it there. He says, “Ask me.”

Andrew lifts his hands, puts the pads of his fingers to old and puckered wounds. Some cave in and some out. It’s easily mesmerizing to watch his fingers move up and down against Neil’s forearm. He moves his left hand to hold Neil steady at his elbow, and his right to feel the gash that travels from one side of his arm to the other. Andrew guesses knife. 

“This one.”

Neil closes his eyes again. Andrew watches them flicker beneath his lids, hands still discovering marks. 

“I was eight. I tried to enter my father’s study while he was in a meeting. I should have known better, but I wanted to show him something - can’t remember what now.” Neil sighs. “An associate of his caught me in time, would have been worse if she hadn’t. I’m just lucky enough they didn’t let me - some of them would have - did - let me do it just to watch my father’s ire. Anyway, they swatted my hand away with a knife.”

Andrew’s hands find a new tension, somehow still finding a way to be gentle at Neil’s arm. His thoughts are taken over with something new. 

“And where is your father now?” He says it through his teeth and against his tongue. It’s hard to keep in, but even harder to get out. Andrew doesn’t deal with bullies, he handles them. He would handle this one if Neil asked him to, he thinks.

“Prison.” Short, but a careful display of Neil’s relief. 

“Good.”

**iii.**

Andrew pokes and prods at Neil’s arm, his shoulder, the bits of his ribs that Neil’s tank top offers. He listens to, watches, Neil relive the stories behind each scar. He grows more angry with every story. Neil’s yet to say explicitly what his father did - his profession - but Andrew has a few guesses, none of them pleasant. 

Andrew can see that Neil would easily sit here and relive these pains until he ran out of stories to tell, but he comes to the conclusion that his own resolve will not last nearly so long. He’s nearly shaking with the effort it takes to be gentle. His hands have become heavy. Andrew lets his hands fall to his sides. Neil keeps his arm on Andrew’s knee, maybe in case Andrew changes his mind about his stopping. He doesn’t. 

They share shut eyes, listen to the the voices around them. Someone shouts for someone else to throw their frisbee back. Another is reviewing their last chem lab rather loudly with their, presumably, lab partner. The rest is just a collective voice, too jumbled to be understood. Andrew finds his solace there. Grounds himself to that. Lets his fingers grow apart from the itch to make a fist. 

He doesn’t realize the footsteps he hears are coming for them until a voice says, “You so deserve it if you get sunburned for taking a nap outside.” 

Andrew opens his eyes to find a familiar blonde face looming over them. Allison wears her typical get up - something that makes a presentation. Her hair is split into two braids, meaning she’s either on her way to, or just left, the gym. 

He’s not shocked to see that she knows Neil, Allison knows anyone she wants to, and even those she doesn’t. 

“Actually,” Neil opens his eyes slowly, as he had when Andrew had approached earlier, “I’m in the shade; I’m also not asleep.”

Allison kicks Neil’s shoe lightly, “Can still get burned, fuck face.” Neil snorts and shakes his head. Andrew thinks, stupidly, that he likes that. His watching Neil seems to remind Allison of his presence, because she says, “What are you doing with Neil, monster?”

“How I do like it when you’re sober.” His smile is gleaming and sharp. 

“Pleasure.” Her sweet tone sours quickly, “Answer the question.” She juts a hip out, hand resting on it in an “I’m waiting” pose. A sober Allison is less agreeable, but more fun to play with. Too bad he’s not in the mood for playing. Too much.

“I’m offering my unique services to a friend in need,” Andrew says innocently. 

She muffles a scoff, “I’ll believe you’re being helpful when pigs fly.” She turns her attention back to Neil, “He bothering you?”

“We’re feeling honest today - so no, he is not, and yes, he is helping me.” It’s Andrew’s turn to scoff. He sounds ridiculous with his “we’re feeling honest today” bit. He goes with it anyway.

“See, Allison? He asked nicely; maybe that’s why I never help you.” He can nearly see her face turning red. She looks between the two of them, Andrew and Neil, searching for something. She finds it, because then it’s not. She wears a cheshire grin in an instant. 

“We’re all going out tonight - Dan, Matt and me - but we can’t get Renee to come. I bet she’d come if you did.” 

Andrew can feel Neil’s gaze on him. He ignores it. “I bet she would.”

“Then we agree. Will come out with us tonight?” He can see the scheme in her eyes. If he says no then he only confirms what Allison thinks she sees. Yes might be bad, but no is worse. 

“Two rules.”

“Name ‘em.” She wears a challenge on her face. A dare. It says, _Make me turn you down, because you can’t._

“He goes,” Andrew inclines his head toward Neil, “and I get to bring three of mine.” It’s likely no less than she expected, and she agrees easily. Granted, ‘easily’ does not mean the, “Done,” was not spoken through gritted teeth, but rather that it came quickly. 

Allison leaves with a lighter-than-she-looks, “My dorm. Eight. See you there.” She walks in the direction of gym rather than away from it, so Andrew’s earlier guess was right. It’s a mild thought to tie his thoughts from one to the next. But mostly to avoid the stare to his left. 

When Andrew looks over to Neil he only says, “I’m a lightweight.” Andrew makes a rough sound in the back of his throat.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go out with the gang. Andrew is drowning.

**i.**

Kevin is at the gym and Nicky is at the library when Andrew gets back to the dorm. He sends a quick group text. 

**Andrew; 4:23pm  
dorm. going out tonight.**

Aaron is asleep in a bean bag chair, fingers still wrapped around his phone. Andrew doesn’t have to guess who he had been talking to before falling asleep, it goes unsaid. Andrew grabs a pillow from the couch and throws it at Aaron. He doesn’t wake as Andrew might have, but rather grumpily swipes a hand in the air out of annoyance. Andrew ignores it and sweeps down into Aaron’s space. 

He flicks Aaron’s ear and says shortly, “Get. Up.”

For as much as Andrew remarks on Allison’s picture perfect appearance, his few put as much effort in - when going out, at least. 

When Aaron’s eyes peel open Andrew stands. He goes to the mini-fridge for a water, which they need more of. He drinks it the most - he’s the most sensitive to the heat - so it’ll be his job to get more. He adds it to the short list he had started after saying he would go out tonight. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out.

**Kevin; 4:26pm  
omw. grabbing nicky.**

He leans against the door frame to watch Aaron’s slow progress waking while downing the bottle. It takes half the bottle for Aaron to sit up. 

Aaron drags the heel of his palm across his eyes and yawns, “Fuck’s that for?” His hair is flat on the back of his head where he had laid on it. 

“We’re going out tonight. Need to shop before.” Andrew finishes the water then, moves and puts the empty bottle on the desk so he can toss it later. “Kevin and Nicky are on their way.”

“‘Kay,” Aaron pulls himself up from the bean bag, “takin’ a piss.” 

**ii.**

There’s a full length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, and Andrew takes a moment to look himself over. His hair is a mess, pushed roughly to the right, but haphazardly so. He wears a long sleeved collared shirt. It’s black, and the front torso is lace rather than solid. It’s some sort of leaf pattern. His jeans are tight, also black. The boots he wears are different than his normal ones; they don’t have an assortment of useless buckles and zippers, they’re just plain. 

A voice tells him to be careful, that this is dangerously close to trying to impress. He tells it to shut up. 

The only part of his outfit that hadn’t come from their earlier shopping trip are his jeans. These are his, for lack of a better term, “party pants.” Wearing them is natural - and something he uses as an excuse to tell himself that he isn’t entirely dressing up. 

Nicky pounds on the door, breaking Andrew from his thoughts, “Andreeew, it’s time to go!” A glance to the alarm clock across the room says it’s 7:51. It’s a few minutes from their dorm to the girls’. Andrew looks at himself one more time, one last convincing look to fool himself. 

**iii.**

Andrew is a fool. A man who will spend the night drowning. He’d been convincing himself that he wasn’t dressing up when he should have been preparing himself. Allison is cutthroat. He seems to be in a constant state of reminding that Allison may not be Andrew, but she’s willing to play any game he puts forward - a lesson few learn. 

The girls’ door is open and noise is pooling out from inside. Andrew’s crew showing up only makes it louder. There’s too many of them to think it would be anything but. He hates this crowd. They’re like Allison, but they’re unwilling to play the game. 

Matt and Dan are huddled close on the couch, each with a beer in their hands. Renee gives the couple space, sitting in the desk chair. She doesn’t have a drink, not unusual. Nicky, Aaron, and Kevin quickly situate themselves into different areas of the room - the beds and the floor - after grabbing a beer from the pack on one of the dressers. Andrew does the same and pulls the other desk chair to Renee’s side. Allison and Neil are in the bathroom, door open and hollering to keep up with the conversation - which is about whose cars to take. 

Andrew doesn’t offer, but Allison does for him, “The monster can take Neil. We can go in mine. Settled.” Settled indeed. Matt sends an unsure look in Andrew’s direction, and Andrew smiles smartly in return. 

Matt is all bark and no bite - most of the time, either way too much bark. He’s hulking compared to Andrew’s stature. His hair is always spiked, a thing Andrew has no taste for. The track marks on his arm though, Andrew is very familiar with. It was last year, when Renee had been convinced they could all be one big, happy family. Andrew did what Renee thought, to an extent. He made them a family - just not one that included him or his own. 

The past events aren’t necessarily a sore spot between them, but more of a reminder that Andrew isn’t like them. He’s glad of it. People who forget regret it. 

Andrew doesn’t feel like he’s drowning until Allison finally makes an appearance from the bathroom, Neil following behind her. She makes a big show of it. Spreads her arms wide in the air to present Neil. 

His eyes catch on all of it, but are ultimately drawn to the span of skin at Neil’s hips. He’s got on goddamn fishnet stockings. Over top he wears form fitting jeans with various holes in them. Andrew’s certain that Allison has worn this outfit before - actually, he’s certain the fishnets are hers. This makes it worse. Then there’s the top. It’s black, it’s tight, and it’s mesh. Andrew can see everything. And his face. Andrew voices an irrational thought in his head, perhaps the most irrational yet. He wants to kiss Neil.

There’s glitter across his cheekbones and his eyes are rimmed in black - not the too-much-make-up way, but the wow-his-eyes-are-really-blue-like-this way.

Distantly he hears the hoots and hollers of the others. He doesn’t even pay attention to whatever stupid comment Nicky makes. He’s too busy looking at Neil. He’s too busy knowing that Neil is watching him look. His head is roaring and he needs to get himself under control. 

He can’t have this, his head says. He wants this, a different part of him says. 

He looks and he looks and he looks. Considering Andrew’s normal indifferent stare, this is downright pornographic. He knows it, but he keeps looking. At his chest. The inches of skin between the edge of his shirt and his jeans. His arms. His thighs. His mouth. 

He drinks Neil in until he hears Allison say they’d better get going. He catches her eye in time to see a winning smirk plastered across her face. He involuntarily hisses his breath in intake. Renee looks at him just as knowing as Allison, her’s is only different in that it’s true instead of winning. He hates it all the same. 

He’s the first out the door.

**iii.**

Andrew puts Neil between Aaron and Nicky in the backseat. He doesn’t want to look at him, yet still every time he looks in the rear-view mirror his eyes slide down to Neil. A few times Neil is already looking. Andrew wears his best absent face when this happens, looks for a moment longer, then back to the hot pink car in front of them. 

Allison’s car certainly is an attention grabber- the first and last time he thinks he’ll ever be thankful for the atrocity. He tries his patience by watching Allison’s car with careful attention. It’s all he can do to not look at the blue-eyed boy in the backseat. 

It’s too long to reach the club. 

It’s a relief to finally roll down the window when he has to reach out for the parking pass. He hadn’t realized that, despite the cool air conditioning blowing on him, he felt stifled. He doesn’t breathe fully until he drops Neil and the others at the front door - which involves shoving Aaron out, awake or not. 

The few minutes it takes to park the car are the only few minutes he breathes properly the whole night. 

**iv.**

Tonight, Andrew feels like Kevin. He feels like drinking until he feels something - else. He’s not drunk like Kevin has to be to do this, but he’s not entirely sober. It’s better though - less constricting. He’s okay with this. Especially because despite trying to drink Neil into a different sort of problem, he’s still in the seat next to Andrew.

Everyone else is off dancing, but he’s been sitting here, matching Andrew drink for drink. He looks at Neil over the rim of his glass and he swears Neil glows under the club lights. 

“‘re you trying to prove something? - because you have.” Neil’s voice is slurred and stupid to Andrew’s ears. 

“What is it,” Andrew says when he thinks his voice won’t betray him, “that you think I’ve proven?” The hollow of his throat is dark because of the angle of the lights. He’s staring. He looks up to Neil’s face. 

“I told you I’m a lightweight. You have an unfair advantage here.”

He wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him. 

“I didn’t tell you to drink yourself under the table.” The bass to the music feels like his whole heart on display. “You could have danced with the others.” 

There’s a scar on his shoulder that runs across his chest. Andrew uses it as an excuse to span his gaze there. It’s a flimsy excuse, even not-entirely-sober him knows this. 

“But you’re not dancing with them.” Neil says it like it’s so simple. Andrew hears it like it almost is. Almost. He spends to long with the word “almost” ringing in his ears.

Neil pulls a napkin close to him and pulls a pen from one of his pockets. He hunches over it a little, pen primed, and asks, “One of your conditions was that Kevin, Nicky, and Aaron come, so why aren’t you with them out there? How come you’ve barely said a word to them all night?”

Andrew thinks that maybe the more drunk you get, the clearer people start sounding when _they’re_ drunk. Neil is sounding more clear with every word.

“They’re easier handled if they’re happy. Nicky’s been complaining for weeks, asking to go out.” He asks himself it was partially because then they could keep the others busy. He tells himself no. He tells himself yes. 

Neil leans an elbow on the table, into Andrew’s space. Andrew’s breath hitches, but the atmosphere hides it. “So they aren’t really your people - not really. They’re your family, but they aren’t your type.” It’s not a question, so Andrew doesn’t answer it. “It’s my turn,” Neil announces. 

Andrew nods his head in confirmation. He won’t deny Neil his question. 

“That’s my question then. What _is_ your type?” Maybe Andrew just thinks that Neil’s closer than he was before. No. No he doesn’t, because now Neil’s forearm is touching his. Neither looks down, just at each other. Neil's pen has stilled and he's stopped whatever he'd started in on the napkin. It’s the only decision Andrew hasw. It’s out of his mouth before he has the chance to stop himself - which he should have. 

“You.”

Either Neil’s too drunk to notice how heavy the word is on Andrew’s tongue, or he knows exactly. Even this gone, Andrew’s done with assumptions and him. 

“I didn’t think you liked snakes.” Andrew doesn’t mean to - or maybe he does, he’s not thinking the way he should - but he leans back against Neil’s arm. He’s not pushing, but holding him up. He wants to say, _“I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”_

Instead he stops thinking and he says, “Just because you’re a snake, it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you.”

Neil’s eyebrows furrow and he blinks hard. His mouth forms silent words that Andrew doesn’t try to read. His brain is silent and his chest is tight. Under Andrew’s confession, Andrew is holding more of Neil’s weight. He does, hold him, because it’s all he can do at the moment. 

Finally Neil speaks, “Andrew, why didn’t you - you didn’t say anything.” His question turns into a statement. Andrew almost tells him that they’ve known each other for two weeks, but figures his own pension for honesty would be called to mind. 

“You’re a pipe dream. It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Neil tries for his original question, “Why?” 

His head snaps back to awareness with a painful click. “That’s enough. It’s my turn, and I don’t have to take it now.” Andrew punctuates it by finishing his glass and grabbing a full one from the tray. 

Neil takes easily to the silence between them, adapting quickly to whatever string of thoughts runs through his head. 

Andrew picks the drink up, brings it to his lips, and sets it down without taking a drink three, four, five times. He wants to drink, but he needs to drive later. Considering the rate he had been drinking before, it’s smarter to stop now. He hates being smarter. 

The pounding of the club music feels empty and hollow. He loses track of the time in it. It feels like moments before the others cloud back to the table, a strangled parade of drunks at this point. He pulls the napkin from the space Neil had worked on it before they can see it. Andrew hates what he sees. It's him, but it's all wrong. Soft and open faced. All fucking wrong. 

**v.**

Andrew goes to the rooftop when they return to campus. He stays long enough to see that Kevin, Nicky, and Aaron don’t choke on their vomit, and then he climbs the stairs and jimmies open the emergency exit. 

He doesn’t waste time pretending to entice himself before walking to the edge. He spent the night trying to feel anything but Neil, and now he wants to just feel anything. He steps onto the ledge and his toes hang over. His arms hang limp at his sides. Andrew pulls his head up to the sky so that the skin on his neck is taut. His eyes close and he breathes, deep and slow. 

His pulse is erratic. 

He smiles.

The door squeaks open and his smile fades. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s Renee, because she’s the only one who comes up here. She comes to Andrew’s side, sitting cross legged on the ledge rather than standing. 

“I wish you wouldn’t stand.” her voice is quiet, but not small. 

He speaks to the sky, “I wish you wouldn’t meddle.” She’s about to. She does that from time to time, always hoping to see the best in him. Hope is a ridiculous thing to have for a man like him. 

“I suppose we remain at an impasse.” Andrew looks down to her. She’s changed already, into pajamas. Thin pants and an old t-shirt. 

Andrew hums a reply. The night air is hot, but light. 

“He’s like you, Neil is.” He’s not surprised that she’s here about Neil. The events all but begged it from her. If anyone is capable of reading Andrew, it’s Renee. And Andrew had been more than obvious tonight. He’d been a beacon for Renee’s hopeful conversation.

“I’ve met Neil before, but I make him uncomfortable so I try to give him space. So I didn’t notice it until tonight, watching the two of you.” She doesn’t have to say, _“Watching_ you _,”_ for Andrew to hear it. 

“He’s a snake.” A mild defense. He stares at the moon, and it stares back. It’s half lidded, much like Andrew feels. 

Renee quips back easily, “He’s trying not to be.”

“Because it didn’t work out for him,” Andrew points out. He’s good at back and forth. Back and forth is easy. It’s also pointless.

“Because it didn’t work out for _you_.” 

Andrew shrugs his shoulders. Sighs. “Does it matter, really, in the grand scheme of things?” His head is pounding. 

“It matters, Andrew,” Renee says, “if he makes you happy.” He laughs, big puffs of air until his lungs are empty. 

“He makes me want to hit him.” Renee waits. “I won’t give him pieces of me to wreck.” He feels barren up here. The thought of being a step away from falling is a constant sobering thought in the back of his head. 

“Hm, and if he doesn’t wreck them?”

“Oh Renee. How naive of you. You know as well as I do that if there’s something to wreck, someone will do it.” All at once he is bitter. There is only so much of him left. 

He can feel her stare, watching him in askance. He waits a moment more looking at the sky before turning his gaze down to her. When she has it she says, “Just so you know, you’re allowed to be unsure. And you’re allowed to do something without thinking.” It’s all she says before getting up and retreating downstairs. 

He wants to scream out that all he’s done tonight is be unsure and do things without thinking. It felt awful, his head is throbbing. 

But he can’t stop thinking about Neil. Seeing the glitter reflect the club’s lights. Seeing his muscles move beneath the mesh shirt. His hips in the fishnets. His jean-clad thighs. His eyes. 

Unsure isn’t accurate. Andrew is sure, he’s just fighting with himself. Want versus Need. He doesn’t need Neil. Neil could take every piece of Andrew there is and twist it into something awful - even for the monster. 

Or he could kiss him.

Andrew sighs and pulls himself down into a sitting position.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew holes up in his dorm. He spends the weekend having conversations he probably shouldn't.

**i.**

**Neil; 12:32pm  
draw later? y/n?**

**Allison; 1:56pm  
i’m not a complete ass. i got what i wanted. i won’t do anything about neil.**

Andrew wakes to these texts - sort of. He woke up around ten, and had been doing nothing in particular since then. When his phone first vibrated, Neil’s text, Andrew only read Neil’s name before locking his phone and doing nothing some more. It’s Allison’s text that he reads, which leads him to finally reading Neil’s. He rubs a hand across his eyes before responding. 

**Andrew; 1:57pm  
n.**

**Andrew; 1:57pm  
too late. i did.**

Today he wants to sit in his bed until his body aches to move. Nicky, Aaron, and even Kevin had already started their day. Andrew is content to put it all on hold until he can get a firmer grasp on himself. 

Last night had been stupid. The last two weeks have been stupid. Neil is stupid. 

Neil is pretty.

These are the thoughts he needs to get a firmer grasp on. There’s a very annoying and calm voice that has been ringing in his ears since last night, saying, “You’re allowed to do things without thinking.” He’s pretty sure this is the opposite of that, but that doesn’t matter. He’s more focused on him maybe doing something _despite_ thinking. 

This is why he needs a day.

**ii.**

His screen flashes “Sugar Rush” in bright colors before the board on his phone is effectively cleared. This is also when there is a knock. It’s not on the bedroom door, but the outer door that leads to the hallway. His head says Danger. His head says Neil. 

The door says Allison. 

Andrew can count the number of times that Allison has been to his dorm on one hand; namely because it’s one. If he were a betting man, and he often is, he would say this is about their recent texts - also something he can count on one hand. 

He opens to the door to a distinctly angry Allison. She’s wearing a hard scowl and fiery eyes. Were this not a day he’s taking off, he might enjoy this more. She invites herself in when the door opens, shoves past Andrew and into the sitting area. She makes herself comfortable on the couch, then looks to Andrew in an, “I’m waiting,” way. He shuts the door, locks it, and joins her. 

He chooses one of the bean bag chairs, because it’s across from her and because he doesn’t feel like joining her on the couch. 

He waits for her to speak. It’s not his job to be inviting to guests when they aren’t guests. Or invited. She’s content in the silence though, because she’s looking at Andrew with her head cocked. Not confusion, but sizing up. Then finally, “Everyone knows who everyone else is fucking - even Kevin,” she squints a little, “but not you. Not until now.”

“Untrue,” Andrew says. This is a conversation. “I told Renee the moment you all got the notion in your head that we’d be together; I don’t fuck women.” Allison’s face doesn’t change. Renee’s had - not because of the truth, but the crass way he’d delivered it.

“No, I suppose you don’t. But now you want to fuck Neil.” Allison is closest to Andrew in her unabashed honesty. She doesn’t dance around the point, or play pretty getting there. Andrew’s laughs sardonically. 

“I suppose I do.” There’s been too much confronting and confessing in the last twenty-four hours. This was supposed to be his off day. Oh well. 

“Is that all you want to do?”

“Undetermined,” he says truthfully. He’s sure that he wants Neil. He’s unsure he should give in to it. Andrew hasn’t even considered if Neil would take him, should Andrew give him the chance. He's supposed to be taking a day, he reminds himself. 

“You want to explain to me then,” the anger is back - he hadn’t realized it had dissipated a little until it came back so clearly, “what ‘Too late. I did,’ means? Because that doesn’t sound like undetermined. That sounds like you’re fucking with his head.”

Well, yeah. More importantly, it’s fucking with his. 

“It means I was dead set on drinking, and so was he. It means he asked a question and I answered. Say what you will about me, Allison, but I don’t lie.”

“No, no you don’t. You just hide and deceive in any way you can - you wait until it’s opportune for you to reveal the truth.”

His head still hurts from last night, and he’s losing his patience with Allison. He’s trying - something he’s certain Renee is responsible for - to be honest. Neil makes him want something, and Andrew still isn’t sure if that’s something he’s willing to risk. 

“It’s certainly not opportune, but I’ll be candid with you, Reynolds. I don’t know what I want to do about Neil. I don’t know _if_ I’m going to do something about Neil. I don’t know if Neil wants anything to do with me. In fact, you’ll find that there’s very little I do know, so you’ll have to forgive me if I seem to be withholding information. You see, I don’t have the information.

“If you’d like more information, I’d try the menace that’s gotten us all into this. I happen to know that Neil’s schedule is wide open. Why? Because I dared to try sensitivity and take a day away from him so I might try at figuring _something_ out.”

He raises from his seat.

“So now, if you’ve nothing else, sincerely fuck off.”

He doesn’t give a shit whether she does or doesn’t. He does. He goes into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him like the child he feels like being.

He shuts his phone off. He forces himself to sleep until tomorrow. He’s quite done with thinking. With being. 

**iii.**

The alarm clock says it’s 4 in the morning. He’s surprised he managed to sleep so long considering he had done a whopping nothing. Perks of being slightly hung over, he supposes. 

He grabs his phone and climbs down the ladder of the bed. The coffee pot calls to him. He puts enough water in to make a few cups, starts it, and pads to the living room.

He’s been wearing the same clothes for two nights now, and they feel warm. The couch is cold in contrast, and he grabs for the blanket hanging over the back. He turns his phone on while he waits for the coffee. It vibrates instantly, multiple times in a row. They're texts, all from Neil. 

**Neil; 8:42pm  
tomorrow? y/n?**

**Neil; 9:17pm  
are u mad, y/n?**

**Neil; 9:58pm  
allison says ur mad. i’m not.**

**Neil; 11:34pm  
okay. gn.**

Great. A lovely way to start the day. He wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn’t agreed to go out with them the other night. He’s too smart to think it’ll all work out, but was too stupid to say no. He responds to Neil.

**Andrew; 4:12am  
y, y.**

**iv.**

There’s a knock on the outer door of the dorm, but this time Andrew knows that it’s Neil. He told Neil he could come over to draw, but that Andrew wasn’t feeling very personable, nor was he feeling like leaving the dorm. It’s the last day he can pull this, because he has class tomorrow. 

He’s changed since he got up this morning, but not much. It’s cool in the dorm thanks to - a rarity - the air working, so he’s wearing a gray Dallas Stars hoodie and black sweatpants. (The hoodie is because of number 91, and by default a good option for when he doesn't feel personable.) He’s wearing stupid-thick socks. 

He’s mopey. He has moved on to mopey. 

Neil does not hold this same sense of style today. Andrew opens the door to a tank top wearing, short clad Neil. The tank top has tiny palm trees everywhere, and his shorts are plain khaki. He looks good. Andrew ignores it. 

Andrew is at the door long enough to open it then walk back to the bean bag chair, leaving Neil at the door and to his own devices. 

The chair is warm where he’s been sitting all day. He’s gone through all the typical do-nothing tasks; tv, video games, phone, nap. The other three gave their typical suggestions of going to see Renee or the gym. He promptly told them to fuck off. They scattered quicker than usual for the day. 

Neil walks in after a moment of watching Andrew. He shuts the door behind him and asks, “Want it locked?” Andrew says yes. Neil takes a seat in the bean bag chair beside Andrew’s. His sketchpad is in his hand, but he’s not opened it yet. He’s waiting on Andrew. 

It’s his turn, so he asks, “Why’d you offer dinner when we first met?” It’s been bugging him a little. He’s been thinking about it a lot today. Neil had offered Andrew dinner. Andrew had declined it because he’d thought it as a come on. Seeing Neil’s reaction the other night though, he’s thinking it wasn’t. He’s feeling very dumb.

Neil’s face is shocked a little, clearly not the question he’d expected from Andrew. Good. At least he can still do something right. 

His voice grows comfortable with the question as he answers, “It’s what you’re supposed to do, ya know. Someone helps you move in, you give them pizza, maybe a beer. You’re modeling for me, so I just thought - I mean, I’m sorry if that was wrong.” It goes downhill from there.

“Allison told me to pick whoever I wanted, and she told me to take them to dinner. I just thought --” Andrew saves him from his quick derailment by interrupting. 

“Allison wanted to send you on a date. There’s a distinct difference in delivery between pizza and a beer, and dinner. See that?” He’s more angry with Allison than he had been before, because she set Andrew up to make a fool of himself from the very beginning. And maybe he’s angry, partially, because for someone so clever, Neil is astonishingly blind. 

Neil’s understanding is shown but a clearing of his face. The lines of confusion smooth out and his lips form a careful “O” shape. 

Andrew scoffs at him. At Allison. At this whole messy thing. He gets up so he doesn’t have to keep looking at Neil’s mouth. He goes to the kitchen and grabs a beer. He’d grab one for Neil too, but he simply doesn’t want to. Neil can grab one if he’d like. He pops the tab on the walk back to his chair. Again, it’s still a warm reminder of his lack of progress today. 

He takes a few hearty gulps before returning Neil’s stare. Andrew’s is heavy, and Neil’s is blank. “Draw,” Andrew says. He punctuates it with another drink.

Neil falls back into the chair and complies, pulling the pencil from the binding of his sketchbook and opening it. They sit with the only noise between them the sound of his drinking and the rub of Neil’s pencil on paper. Andrew doesn’t look at Neil. He stares at their reflections in the tv. He watches Neil look up every so often, reference. Andrew doesn’t move save to take a drink, so he supposes it’s easy. 

Finally, Neil puts his pencil down and asks, “What changed?” Andrew knows what he’s talking about. When Neil offered dinner, Andrew had shoved it back to him. Now he’s making a mess of himself over Neil. 

“You’re a snake,” Neil opens his mouth to interlude, but Andrew continues too fast, “but so am I.” It’s true, that Andrew doesn’t like snakes. It’s true that Andrew’s honest. But it’s also true that he is one himself. 

Neil picks his pencil up and continues drawing. 

“What was he arrested for?” Andrew asks it maybe out of self preservation, because he’s tired of these questions. He’s tired of Neil - but not really, or he would tell Neil to leave. 

The stillness of Neil is a visceral thing. Andrew can feel it from the chair over. His pencil stops moving, his breathing even slows. It’s settling to see Neil shaken. 

“He was caught. It may be the king’s empire, but there were those loyal to my mother.” Neil breathes deeply. “She was trying to get me away - didn’t want me to be him - and he found out. I imagine she’s got an awful nice dirt blanket. I dunno. They won’t let me go back - the FBI. Too many people, too many conflicting opinions about what I should do, too dangerous. Take your pick.”

He laughs in his head because not only has he infatuated himself with a snake, but one who’s probably as intimate with the system as he is. Even when he’s not being a snake, he is one. He finishes his beer, sets the can on the floor next to him. 

“As unpredictable as you are unreal.”

“It would help,” Neil says neatly, “if you would stop trying to play the game; the rules don’t apply to me.” He’s moving again, moving his pencil and breathing regularly. “But I’ll play by them, and I’ll ask a question you’ll hate: What’s beneath your bands?”

Andrew smiles. Crooked and full of teeth. He hadn’t put his bands on, considering the hoodie and his lack of leaving the dorm. It’s easy to pull the sleeve up on his right arm. He pulls it up to his elbow, watches Neil’s face. He doesn’t need to look down to his arm. He knows each mark intimately. 

There’s no pity on his face. Renee had pitied him. No, Neil looks like he understands, and Andrew wants to hit him. 

“What’d you survive?”

Of course Neil would ask it like that. Because he’s familiar with surviving under the thumb of someone bigger. They are the result of their upbringing. It would have been impossible for either not to become snakes. 

“Foster family. I wanted to stay. Foster brother wanted me to stay too much. I stayed.” The smile on his face is thin and wild. He doesn’t care. All he can hear is Drake’s voice crooning in his ear, telling Andrew how perfect he is.

“And where is he now?” He says it the strangled way that Andrew had asked where Neil’s father is. It’s not in either of them to be cowards.

_He’s here. He’s right here, in my head._

“Marines.”

“Gone.” Neil says effectively.

Neil’s and Andrew’s gaze are locked. This time it’s not heated. It’s the look between two survivors of different cruelties.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew takes Wymack's advice.

**i.**

Sweat beads on his forehead and in the small of his back. His arms shake and his muscles strain. He’s moving sluggishly, the bar moves up too slowly. Wymack’s hands are ghosting below the bar, but he doesn’t put his hands on it, and he won’t unless Andrew tells him to.

Andrew agrees not to hurt himself if Wymack lets him do all he can. He doesn’t want a cheat. He wants to be bone tired and unable to use his body for a week. 

His arms go straight. Wymack pulls the bar backward into the rack. 

Andrew uses the bar to pull himself up into a sitting position on the bench, legs on either side. He pulls the collar of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his brow. He can already feel the emptiness in his arms, soon to be replaced by hurt. 

“News on boy scout?” Wymack asks, removing the weights from the bar. Andrew turns his head back to glare at Wymack. This crosses their deal. Wymack knows Andrew’s thoughts and replies to the silence, “Oh stow it. It became my problem when he started sniffing around. Only thing is, he still your problem?” 

Andrew grabs the spray and towel from the holster of the rack, sprays the bench down. Wipes it. He thinks about not answering. He does though. 

“Very much so.”

He’s not wearing his bands because he’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, but he’s hot beyond belief in it. He shoves two fingers into the left sleeve and pulls it away from his wrist for cool air to circulate. Wymack doesn’t stare at the scant visibility of Andrew’s skin. He’s privy to the ins and outs of Andrew’s problems. One occasion he’s had to consult with Andrew’s therapists - because it used to be he couldn’t even decide whether or not to exercise on his own.

“He gonna be an issue?” The older man asks. He leans up against the weight racks. Wymack has a pension for making grand gestures via talks. Andrew lets him, if only because Wymack is the only one who will advise him honestly - nothing in mind but the facts. This is why Andrew often talks to Wymack. 

He stows the spray and towel back in the holster. Leans on the rack opposite of Wymack so that they can look at one another. He puts two fingers in his right sleeve while he answers.

“‘Going to be’ implies that he wasn’t already. He’s been an issue since day one. You need to see the bigger picture- not whether Neil is my problem, but whether I want to make him my problem.”

Wymack is not as deluded as the rest of Andrew or Renee’s lot. Like he said, Wymack sees the facts. He knows what Andrew has oh so discreetly said - due to the other people working out in the gym, Andrew isn’t inclined to share all of his problems so plainly.

Wymack swallows this a moment, deciding what to say. He considers it carefully. Andrew is glad. Someone needs to have careful thoughts regarding Neil.

“Buy him dinner.” 

It’s simple, because Wymack does not mean to do anything else. He means buy Neil dinner. He doesn’t mean go on a date. He doesn’t mean kiss him. He doesn’t mean take him home. He means to buy him dinner. Andrew thinks he can live with buying Neil dinner.

**ii.**

**Andrew; 3:17pm  
draw tomorrow night, y/n?**

**Neil; 3:24pm  
y.**

**iii.**

He tells Nicky, Kevin, and Aaron to clear out for a few hours. He doesn’t care where they go, just that they not be here. Aaron, he knows, goes to Katelyn. Kevin and Nicky likely go to the others. It doesn’t really matter. Andrew is sitting on the couch waiting for a knock. 

The air is, somehow, still working, so Andrew is thoroughly chilled. He’s wearing a black turtleneck, and a pair of jeans - not black. He is wearing normal socks - these are black. His arms are heavy in his lap, sore from working out. He reads a book while he waits, _Star Trek Lives!_ It’s small, it’s old, and it smells like dust. This is a good smell to smell before buying Neil dinner. 

Neil’s knock is two hits, not tentative, but not overly loud. Andrew opens the door the same way. Not too slow, but not too fast. This is an awful lot of noticing, he tell himself, for the span of five seconds. Neil is wearing a pair of gray cotton shorts, and a Baltimore city shirt, red. 

Andrew steps aside and lets Neil in. He shuts and locks the door. Neil takes up residence on the floor rather than one of the bean bag chairs. Andrew joins him, back against the couch, but comments, “If you object to every piece of furniture that you have to unearth truth on, I’m afraid you’ll be avoiding the floor soon.”

Neil sets his sketchbook out in front of him. He laughs dryly, “Ha ha; it’s my turn anyway.” He pulls his pencil from the binding, flips the book open. It’s still flat on the floor, so Andrew can see glimpses of past sketches. He sees his face, his arms, his legs a hundred times. Neil doesn’t notice - or care, maybe. 

Andrew leans his head back onto the cushion of the couch, sighs, “Ask away.” He wrestles his thumbs together in his lap. 

“What are you afraid of?” He delivers it smoothly, without any leading tone. This is the only way Andrew can neglect his first thought that this is more than just the question it seems. He considers the list.

“Heights.”

Andrew closes his eyes and thinks. It’s hard, because Neil is so close that Andrew can smell him, feel his body heat. He ignores it.

“Do you like Chinese?”

**iv.**

Andrew has it delivered. He has to go down to the front doors to get it because deliveries aren’t allowed past the front desk. He pays the delivery girl, tips her, and - it could be said - hurries back to the room with the food. 

He sets it down on the floor in front of Neil and grabs some forks and spoons - not every Chinese place actually serves their food with chopsticks. He comes back to sit where he was at Neil’s side, back against the couch.

When he crosses his legs, his knee knocks with Neil’s thigh. He does not move it. He instead grabs for the bag of food and distributes it. 

Andrew eats sweet and sour chicken with rice - sans the sweet and sour sauce. (Chicken. He has Chicken and rice.) Neil has kung po beef. They share egg drop soup. They stop asking questions and start talking. Neil talks about home. Andrew talks about the good homes. His knee is warm where it touches Neil.

**v.**

**Andrew; 12:42am  
maybe i’ll make him my problem.**


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short transition in thinking.

**i.**

When Andrew tells Neil to follow, he does so without question. Andrew leads them down the hall, to the end where the stairway is. They go up to the top floor, accompanied by the booming echoes of their feet. They reach the emergency exit that Andrew only has to jimmy open to get through. 

The whole world is orange from here. The sun is low in the sky, and it’s too hot for clouds. The gray cement on the roof of the building even looks orange from the sun’s rays. 

Andrew goes to the far ledge, the one he usually goes to. He pulls his feet over the edge, lets them dangle, and shuts his eyes. His pulse is hammering.

Neil sits next to him. Andrew screws his eyes shut further. They’re a few inches apart. He can hear Neil kick his legs back and forth against the building. 

“I run,” Neil offers. Andrew opens his eyes to look at Neil. He elaborates, “I run when I want to feel something.” 

Andrew makes a “Hm” sound and returns shut eyes to the sky. If he shuts his eyes the height feels taller.

He taps his pointer and middle finger on the ledge to the rhythm of his pulse. It’s the hand next to Neil, his left, and Neil reaches his hand out to it. He wraps his hand around Andrew’s wrist - feeling his pulse. His pulse picks up slightly. Neil holds it for a moment longer, then drops it. 

“I’m starting the final piece tomorrow.”

“Had your fill of me, then?”

“No.”

**ii.**

It’s on a white piece of card stock. At the top, in bold writing, it says, “Spend an Evening Reviewing the Semester’s Work.” Beneath it are a time, a date little more than a week from today, and the words, “A Formal Event.”

They each get one. Andrew. Kevin. Nicky. Aaron. Matt. Dan. Renee. Allison.

**iii.**

He picks up Renee after her class - Algebra III. He still thinks it’s stupid that they all volunteered to take classes in the summer, but what one does they all do. 

He has the air on full blast; it’s 103 degrees out today, and climbing. He’d worn shorts and a tank top to accommodate for it. Renee is wearing similar, only her tank top has thinner straps, and her shorts are shorter. 

Renee is the only one aside from Kevin that sits in the passenger seat. She flips through the radio, looking for something she likes - looking for something that Andrew doesn’t like. Her hair, he notices, is fading fast. It’s due to be dyed again soon, he can tell. 

“Go to Khol’s. That’s your best bet.” She finds a station she likes, some light pop station. 

Andrew listens to her and gets off the freeway at the exit that will get them to Khol’s. 

**iv.**

Andrew grabs for a black shirt in his neck size, but Renee swipes his hand away. He glares at her. “Not good enough?” He asks through clenched teeth. 

“No. We are looking for the right color yellow.” He must look at her dumbly because she explains, “It will make your eyes more … honey. It will make your eyes more honey.”

**v.**

He likes the sound of hair being cut, likes listening to the scissors open and close so close to his ears. He likes the feeling of physically departing a part of himself in the wake of something new. Most of all though, he likes the grin from Renee, all teeth and lines. Her face scrunches into something fierce, and Andrew almost smiles too.


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew dresses up. Andrew prepares himself. Andrew is not prepared.

**i.**

To say Andrew is curious is an understatement. Andrew had given Neil too much ammunition these past few weeks for him to guess at which bullet Neil had decided to put in the chamber. There are obvious choices, but then again nothing is ever obvious with Neil. 

It is a constant effort to push it further in his mind. He tries to focus on the tasks at hand one by one. Washing his face. Brushing his teeth. Buttoning his shirt. Putting socks on. Tucking his shirt into his pants. Buckling his belt. Tying his shoes. Fixing his hair. 

At the very least, he ends up with a meticulous look, if not a more bothered mind than he started with. 

The shoes aren’t new, but he shined them so they look it. He even got new shoelaces, because the old ones were frayed. They’re the only pair of dress shoes he has. His pants are slim-fit slacks, black. The long sleeved shirt is the yellow that Renee agreed was the best fit for the job - the one that makes his eyes more “honey.” He’s not sure that “honey” is the correct term, but he agrees that the yellow makes his eyes look good. Renee cut his hair a few days ago, and just left from fixing it tonight. (If it were left to Andrew, he would put some product in it and mess it up. Renee has made him look “formal.”) It’s pulled away from his forehead, pushed back a little. The sides are combed down too, not the normal disarray. He’s downright presentable. 

He needs a cigarette.

He escapes to the rooftop while the others finish getting ready. (He had been early because Renee needed to do his hair, and still have time to get ready herself.) He blends in up here, because it’s not quite sunset. The sky is just starting to turn a pink hue. It’s all very pleasant. There’s even a light breeze. 

He pulls the pack from his pocket, then a cigarette. The lighter is shoved in there as well, so he pulls it out with the cigarette. He places the cigarette between his teeth and the lighter in his right hand. His thumb pulls back on the igniter and he holds the cigarette in in the flame. His breath calls it to life. He pockets the lighter with one hand, and pulls the cigarette between two fingers with another. Exhales. He relishes in the mechanics of it. 

**ii.**

He’s the last to the girls’ room. He knows because he can hear Nicky’s cries from down the hallway - and then Aaron’s promptly telling him to be quiet. It’s a safe assumption that Kevin is there too. It’s confirmed when Andrew finally approaches. The door is open, and Kevin can be seen leaning against one of the desks. Andrew leans against the door frame.

Allison is the first to see him, and also to spread a silence across the room. “Holy shit,” she says, “the monster actually looks attractive.” Andrew quickly makes a biting motion at her, which she waves off in favor of her surprised face. 

“You’ll never hear me say it again,” Matt pipes in, “but she’s not wrong. You clean up nice.” That is about as much as Andrew is willing to put up with.

“Well you all clean up awful. Really,” he says in mockery, “you all look terrible. Didn’t you read that the invitation said this is a formal event?” 

“There he is,” Dan says lowly, under her breath. 

“Yeah,” Andrew quips, “here I am, so are we going or not?”

**iii.**

They are a fearsome group the way they are, dressed up and walking together. They do not look like the others who make their way to the viewing. It is in the air, how different they are. Andrew likes this. To be like the others is to be boring. People stare at them when they enter the viewing hall. 

The viewing hall is a gallery, and it’s got a constant flow of student art coming in and out of it. Presently, there are, according to the program, four classes worth of projects in the hall. They don’t bother pretending to be interested in the other three. Again they are out of place. Others mill around, making their way slowly around the rooms. They don’t bother with the art on the walls, skipping past them until they come to the room with Neil’s class’ art. 

Andrew’s pulse is a hammer in his veins. Whatever Neil reveals is everyone’s to see.

He can see Neil standing on the far left wall. He seems to have gotten pointers from Renee, because he wears a shirt just the right shade of blue for Andrew to look immediately to his eyes. _Blue, blue, blue._ He looks incredible. Andrew doesn’t need to analyze every piece, he just does. Andrew wants to kiss him. 

And then he is seeing the piece on the wall behind Neil. He is seeing himself on a canvas that is hung on a nail in the wall. There’s a picture frame with card stock in it, something typed up, beside the canvas. 

Andrew forgets about the others around him, about the people he came with. He looks around the room. He sees walls filled with people in stages of intimacy. Some completely naked, some covered in bed sheets. Some show awful scars, some show scenes of anguish on faces. He turns his gaze back to Neil’s. 

Andrew is on the rooftop. He’s sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. His head is angled toward the sky, and his eyes are shut. He can see the line of his neck so clearly against the sky. And the sky. Oh, it’s so orange. It’s so orange it makes it seem like he’s sun-kissed instead of pale. 

Andrew is directly in front of it now. He hadn’t noticed the others had made the room for him to be.

His arms are red with the summer’s heat. He can see the force with which he grips the edge of the rooftop with. His arm bands are on. His face is calm but his body is tense. There are sharp edges to his body, angular spaces. 

He looks soft and hard and scared and fierce. 

Andrew reads the card stock.

_The task of exposing my subject would be simple, were he not the subject. Even in a moment of intimacy, the subject is not exposed; he is giving. The difficulty in this piece lay in finding a piece of the subject that he wasn’t willing to give. This, I found, was in showing the subject in a way no one, not even the subject himself, saw him: as he is. This is the one thing he was unwilling to give, because he was unaware he had it._

  
  


He’s turning before he even tells himself to. He’s at the front doors before Neil catches him. He’s on the sidewalk when Neil does.

“Andrew!” Neil calls. 

He ignores it, keeps walking. It doesn’t matter though because Neil jogs to the spot in front of him, and he stops. 

“Andrew.” There’s too much emotion on his face. Andrew doesn’t bother with it.

“Fuck off, Neil.” This was not a part of the plan. Neil was supposed to do something expected. Andrew had a list. He prepared himself for not knowing which of the list it was, but he did not prepare himself for this. “I fucking hate you.” 

He hates Neil for making him feel like this. His heart is a drum inside his chest. 

Neil doesn’t stop him when he darts around him. Doesn’t stop him when Andrew leaves.


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew hides out. Wymack is consulted. Decisions are made.

**i.**

He kicks Nicky in the shoulder when he tries to talk to Andrew. Tells Kevin he can stow his hypocritical ass neatly on the couch if he says another word. Throws a fist that Renee catches. 

He does not like this feeling. He does not like it one bit.

He thought it would be gone when he woke up. It was not.

**ii.**

**Andrew; 9:56pm  
you free?**

**Wymack; 9:57pm  
i need groceries.**

**iii.**

He’s only been to Wymack’s apartment once, but he remembers it perfectly. It takes about ten minutes to drive from campus to Wymack’s. He lives in a set of apartments that you get when you’re in your twenties and broke. Or, when you happen to toss all of your money to kids who probably don’t deserve it. This is a not widely known fact about Wymack. Andrew likes it best. 

Andrew doesn’t have to buzz his number or honk the horn, because Wymack is sitting on the stoop waiting for Andrew. He gets up when he sees the headlights. He enters the car with an “oof”, the result of an old injury that still pains him. 

“Go to Kroger.” He rubs at his knee as Andrew pulls away from the curb. They don’t speak again in the car. It’s an unspoken understanding that they’ll wait until they’re in the store. 

It’s late enough that only one of the entrances are open; Andrew parks at the wrong end. They have to walk to the other end under the watchful eye of a senior employee, probably tired of having the same thing happen every night. 

Inside, the store is dead. There’s a few late night shoppers, but the staff outnumber them. “Grab a cart,” Wymack tells Andrew, pulling a list from his back pocket. Andrew grabs the cart with the sale ad in it, then tosses it at Wymack when he pulls the cart up to his side. He lets out a gruff, “Thanks,” and opens it. 

He spends a few minutes in the entrance, comparing his list with the sales ad, before he’s satisfied to pick a direction. Vegetables first. 

“I’ll assume this is about boy scout?” Andrew leans his forearms on the handle and watches the tiles pass under the cart. 

“He is a bigger issue than I thought.” An understatement. It’s been days, and still his pulse runs at the thought of the painting and it’s card stock picture frame. It’s been days, and when he goes to sleep he dreams about kissing Neil. He wakes up frustrated and desperate. He hates this. He hates Neil.

Wymack stops at the tomatoes and laughs. He pulls a bag from the dispenser and puts a few in it before tying it up. “The most troublesome things come in the smallest packages.” Andrew does not miss that the statement applies to him also. “But - Oh Jesus, Abby, fuck’s that even say? You read that?” Wymack holds the list in front of Andrew’s face, his thumb pointed at a line of handwriting.

“Lettuce,” Andrew deadpans.

“Don’t get bitchy with me, Andrew. It’s ten-thirty at night and I’m grocery shopping.”

“You could be helping me lift,” Andrew points out, their usual method of Andrew’s venting. 

“Yeah yeah, get to your point.” Wymack starts walking, Andrew follows. 

“He keeps… He keeps not adding up.” Andrew grabs the lettuce for Wymack, because he had been walking straight past it. They move to the baking supplies on the list.

“Yeah well, he is a person. They tend not to.” Andrew scowls, regardless of the fact that Wymack isn’t paying attention. 

“Maybe to you, but people make sense to me. Neil is constantly throwing everything in the air.” They stop for eggs. Wymack sticks his hand in the freezer for a carton and puts in the cart without checking it.

“Not liking the surprises?” He starts muttering to himself, reading the aisle signs, “Chips, beans, syrup - ah, baking needs.” 

“No, that’s my problem,” Andrew says, “I do. I fucking do.”

Wymack stops to look at Andrew. It’s amusement and frustration all in one. “Stop being your own problem.” He resumes walking. “I mean, sure, shit’s got the opportunity to get fucked up - but I’m convinced most things in life do - in fact, all things in life do. So do me a favor and just kiss the kid.”

“I hate you,” Andrew growls. 

Wymack dismisses, waves his hand at Andrew, “Yeah yeah, just help me finish the list. Abby will have my ass if I went out this late and didn’t get everything.”

**iv.**

He’s more trying than normal to be around, and the others make themselves scarce. It doesn’t matter that last night’s conversation with Wymack got him past his stalemate, he’s still sour. He’s happy to be sitting alone on the couch, finishing up a paper for one of his finals. He’s going through and resolving comments, final edits. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

Andrew sets his laptop on the ground and goes to the door. He knows who it is before he opens it, because everyone else is avoiding him. It’s been a week, and he figures Neil is done giving him space. 

True enough, Neil is standing outside his door, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Hi,” Neil says the words in a sigh. 

“Hey.”

Andrew doesn’t move to let Neil in. He’s too stuck in his own head to think about moving his feet. There’s a million things - scenarios, pieces of advice, past conversations - that run through his head. One stands out. _Do me a favor and just kiss the kid._

**v.**

Neil’s face is in his hands and his bottom lip is between his teeth. Neil’s hands are pulling Andrew closer. He hates that. He hates Neil. Andrew pulls back, far enough that their lips don’t touch, but close enough that their chests still do.

Neil’s eyes come open slowly. Andrew watches it like a man desperate.

“I was going to ask,” Neil says, slightly breathless, “if I could kiss you.” His hands are steady at the small of Andrew’s back.

“I hate you.” He can’t stop staring at Neil’s lips. They’re noticeably pink, raw already from Andrew's mouth. 

Neil moves one of his hands from Andrew’s back to his rib cage, thumb rubbing back and forth. He says, “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

“Shut up.”

“I can’t,” He moves that same hand to Andrew’s neck, right over his pulse, “I’m still waiting for a yes or no.”

“Yes.” 

He is drowning. Certainly this is what it feels like to drown. He’s surrounded by Neil, and every time he opens his eyes it’s blue, blue, blue. He swallows gasps like they’re the only air he has. He drags dull nails at Neil’s back, trying at pulling him closer.

When they reach the couch, when Andrew is on top of Neil, he’s more than certain. He’s drowning, and he would gladly do so again to feel like this. Like this he is not a monster. Not a tragedy. Not a statistic. Not a protector. Not angry. Like this, he is a boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wow, okay. So this was a bitch to write. This started as a band AU, so I'm not entirely sure how the hell I ended up here.
> 
> I was constantly scolding myself for making Andrew too emotional, and constantly ignoring that because I love an emotional Andrew. I was constantly telling myself to make some parts longer and then ignoring that too. This piece is a mess of contradictions not only to the characters, but to my own writing style. _You're Such A Violent High_ is the case of lots of sleep lost, stressful typing, last-minute edits, and 3 am induced fluff. Any discrepancies I blame on that fact that I wrote a major portion of this during finals week, and that I as a person am too selfish to stay completely on point. 
> 
> This fic wouldn't be half the fic it is without Jewel though - that much I'm certain of. I can't tell you how many times I clarified something for her artist's eye, realizing that I had described a big fat nothing in the scene." - Simon
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! We put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into this baby. We'd love it if you left kudos and comments - and don't forget to check us out on tumblr!
> 
> <3 Jewel & Simon

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment and a kudos if you liked it!
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Don't forget to check us out on tumblr!**  
>  **author:** matt / [@goldveines](http://goldveines.tumblr.com)  
>   
>  **artist:** jewel / [@jewel-imagines](http://jewel-imagines.tumblr.com)


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